The Railroad Baroness

by The Railroad Baroness (lit)

  “Mrs. Cabot,” he said, the lick of Irish in his voice much stronger than Aileen’s.

  “Mr. Maguire, I’m so pleased to finally meet you,” she said. “I very much admire the work you’re doing for the company. It is causing quite a stir back home in Boston and elsewhere.”

  His nod of acknowledgement was brief, as if he expected nothing else. It wasn’t arrogance, she thought, but rather complete confidence in his own skill. Her interest in the Irishman heightened.

  “You’ll find that Conn is a man of few words, Lillian,” Charles interjected with a chuckle. “It is fortunate his pictures speak for him.”

  The Irishman slanted his friend an unreadable look, but didn’t comment.

  “I see,” Lillian said. Gesturing at Yorke, who had stood in impatient silence throughout the exchange, she added, “Mr. Maguire, Edward Yorke. My father’s secretary.”

  Yorke accepted Charles’s hand readily enough. His pause before granting the Irishman the same courtesy was noticeable, and it was clear he only did so because Lillian and Charles expected him to. Lillian pretended to ignore his snobbery. She had hoped his professionalism would keep a leash on his manners, but apparently not. She made a mental note to speak to him later about it. She couldn’t have him insulting such a talented man as Conn Maguire. As well, considering how many Irish worked on the railroad, he could find himself in serious trouble in camp when simple courtesy would avoid friction.

  Expressionless, Maguire took Yorke’s reluctant hand. Judging by the secretary’s wince, his grip was firmer than expected.

  “Gentlemen, please be seated,” Lillian said, signaling Aileen to alert the galley staff to begin serving. Picking up the teapot, she offered to pour.

  At first, they spoke of inconsequentials—her journey to the end of the line, the latest goings on in Boston, the reconstruction, a particularly sensational murder trial that was filling up the newssheets. Then they moved on to specifics of the railway company, including the progress of the crews and the challenges they’d overcome. Both writer and photographer impressed her with their knowledge and observations. Between them, it seemed they missed little. While spare with his words, Conn displayed a good sense of the work and, particularly, the workers. When he did speak, it was with authority. She felt so drawn to him, she invited him to call her Lillian. It seemed silly for him not to, when his friend already did.

  She enjoyed listening to the Irishman’s quiet voice. His deep tones suited him perfectly. She suspected the combination of sinfully handsome face and lyrical voice was a tempting lure to many a female heart—hers included.

  Charles was no less a hazard. He sat at his ease, taking part in the conversation but not striving to dominate it, as Yorke was wont to do. His eyes twinkled when he looked at her, as if they shared a secret joke. Yes, definitely a hazard.

  In fact, between Conn Maguire and Charles Lowell Adams, it was easy to forget this wasn’t merely a pleasant, subtle flirtation over coffee and pastries. If she needed a reminder, Yorke’s almost palpable impatience provided it.

  She caught Aileen’s faintly amused expression as the woman drank her tea. Over the rim of her teacup, her friend looked from Conn to Charles, then back to Lillian, eyes full of suppressed laughter. The droll quirk of her eyebrow seemed to say, “Adventure?”

  Lillian coughed slightly on a swallow of tea. Putting her teacup down, she nudged it away with her fingertip. “We have several weeks before our guests arrive,” she said, forcibly concentrating on the task at hand. “I have some ideas on how to keep everyone entertained and interested, but I will need some help from you gentlemen, too.”

  “Certainly,” Charles said. “Anything we can do to help.”

  “I hoped you’d say that,” Lillian said. “Charles, I think you could show our guests the operations on the line in the best light. Explain things in, well, not simple terms, but in a way that will help investors and potential investors see the progress we’re making.”

  Charles smiled. “I think I know what you have in mind. I can play native guide, if you wish.”

  “Lovely. And Conn.” Lillian turned to the photographer, hesitated when she noticed how intently he watched her. His gaze, while not blatantly assessing, was certainly appreciative. Her belly quivered with answering appreciation.

  “Yes?” he prompted.

  Lillian felt her cheeks flush. “Now that the rail is past the plains and into the foothills of the mountains, the scenery here is undeniably beautiful. Do you know of some spots that might appeal to guests who enjoy the outdoors and more athletic activities?”

  “Athletic activities?” A ghost of a smile touched his lips, and his expressive blue eyes confirmed the innuendo she heard in his tone.

  Her cheeks grew even warmer. “Yes, such as hiking to some interesting locale, perhaps for a picnic. Nothing too strenuous.”

  Aileen, commenting that they could do with a fresh pot of tea, softly excused herself from the table.

  “I’ll have a look about and see what I can find,” Conn said. “You’ll need guards as well, though. There are bears and wild cats in the area, and I doubt that’s the kind of scenery you’d like them to encounter.”

  “Definitely not. We’ll take whatever precautions you deem necessary.”

  “What Maguire deems necessary?” Yorke interjected. “I beg your pardon, madam, but what makes him qualified to judge the safety of others? I believe it would be far better for the company to hire some expert guides and,” he waved his hand as if searching for a suitable term, “strong men to assist them. I am certain such men can be found in the work crews or in an establishment in camp. Or perhaps it would be better to send for more men to join us before the excursion arrives.”

  His attempt at an ingratiating smile was more than a shade condescending. Lillian was only surprised he didn’t attempt to pat her hand as he added, “It will be no trouble for me to make such arrangements.”

  She raised her brow at Yorke’s open dismissal of her authority in front of Charles and Conn and his attempt to take charge of her plans. She wasn’t averse to advice when it was solicited or informed, but she highly doubted Yorke was more knowledgeable about such things than she was. He, too, came from Boston. Her tone sharp, she said, “Conn is an experienced military man and a professional who is well-acquainted with the flora and fauna of the area, not to mention his reputation for handling himself in difficult situations.”

  Charles appeared to suppress a laugh, while Maguire stared at her in surprise. “And how would you know that, Lillian?”

  “Gentlemen, please. Do you really think I would come all this way without investigating the resources at my disposal? More to the point, do you think my father would trust me to get the job done without fully informing me of everything I might need to know?”

  Charles chuckled and tipped his head in a bow. “Well said, Lillian. Well said.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Yorke, but I’m sure Charles and Conn are up to the task,” she said, speaking as if she didn’t notice his pique at her refusal to allow him to take control. “However, if you would ready those files we spoke of earlier, we can get started on our day.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Cabot,” he said. Standing, he gave her a brief nod of farewell and left the private car, barely avoiding a collision with Aileen in the doorway.

  Lillian hoped Charles and Conn didn’t notice the wink Aileen shot her way when she resumed her seat and informed them a fresh pot of tea was on its way.

  Speaking with her friend about their plans for the day, she covertly watched the men. Their appreciation and interest was highly flattering.

  Charles was a known quantity. A gentlemen to his fingertips, he was also bold and adventurous, with an easy charm and ready humor.

  Conn was different. The word “gentleman” didn’t come to mind in describing him. Yet it was clear he shared other qualities with Charles. Boldness was one of them, obviously, and intelligence. She thought he could be honest to the point of bluntness. His wit
was subtle, more subdued than his more gregarious friend, and she found that appealing, too.

  She greatly admired the work of both men. Charles had a talent for drawing the reader into the most mundane situation with his words and making it exciting and exotic. Conn’s talent was more visceral. The medium naturally forced a quality of stiffness on the subjects. Yet where other photographers struggled with the limitations of their art, Conn’s use of light and shadow gave an undeniable depth to the two-dimensional images he created with his glass plates.

  Yesterday, Charles had been at the top of her thoughts after their meeting. It was rather nice to know her libido hadn’t gotten dusty from misuse. Now, Conn inspired an equally strong interest and physical response. It made her a trifle uncertain. How could she be drawn to both men? It had never happened to her before.

  She had enjoyed the light, social flirtations that were expected of a comfortably married woman. After Stephen’s death, everything changed. She accepted invitations, attended the expected parties and gatherings and played hostess for her father as though another woman stood in her place. Only Aileen seemed to notice, and perhaps her father.

  Then she met Charles and Conn here on the literal fringes of the wilderness. For the first time as a widow, her flirtation was in earnest, enjoyable, exciting. She was having fun.

  She told Aileen she wanted an adventure. Well, here it was. All she had to do was make the first move.

  “So, gentleman,” she said. “What are your plans for the day?”

  “The tent town,” Conn said.

  “Me, too,” Charles said. “It would be good to give the readers an image of life beyond the work crews.”

  Lillian laughed lightly. “I can only imagine. Aileen and I heard the revelry last night. It sounded quite thrilling.”

  “That’s one way of describing it.” Charles grinned, then grew serious. “But Lillian, it would be better if you and Miss McCurdy didn’t go into camp once night falls. The goings-on can become quite rowdy.”

  “How would they be thrilling otherwise?” She appreciated Conn’s chuckle of agreement. “Besides, Charles, I have Yorke to hover over me like a nervous nanny. Not you, too, if you please.”

  He raised his hand as if to fend off the accusation. “I stand corrected. You are your own woman, Lillian.”

  “Yes. I am.” And she hoped her smile was as promising as she meant it to be. Stephen had always said it was impossible to resist. She hoped he was right. She was quite ready to begin her adventure.

  * * * *

  Conn followed Charles down the steps, shrugging his coat into a more comfortable drape over his shoulders.

  “Capable,” he said.

  Charles glanced at him as they fell into step. Without consultation, they set off for the crew car and their lodgings. “I beg your pardon.”

  “That is what you said about Lillian Cabot yesterday,” Conn said. “The most capable lady of your acquaintance, or something thereabouts.”

  “She is.”

  “Not denying it. Except for one thing.”

  Charles raised a brow. “Oh?”

  “That Delilah is no lady.” Before his friend could let loose with the fiery denial Conn knew was on his lips, he added, “She’s all woman. And I mean to have her.”

  “Do you? Well, that’s just too damn bad, since I mean to court her myself. And I rather think your chances are fairly poor, if you can’t recall that her given name is Lillian, not Delilah.”

  Conn snorted and shook his head. “Lillian is too tame. Delilah suits her better, a seductress with the power to bring Samson to his knees.”

  Charles looked at him. “And you know this after sharing a breakfast meeting with her.”

  “Don’t you?”

  His friend’s hesitation was brief. “Yes. But it’s only fair to warn you that I’ve got the inside track on this contest.”

  “How do you figure?” Conn felt his temper start to rise. “Because you’re not Irish?”

  “Don’t be an idiot. Lillian, as I’m sure you realized, couldn’t care less. No, I mean because I’ve known her family since she was a girl.”

  “You courted her?”

  “Well, no.”

  Conn spread his hands in a “so what” gesture.

  “I just know her. And she knows me,” Charles said as they reached the steps of the crew car.

  “I doubt it.”

  “Well, I certainly don’t intend to step aside for you.”

  “Nor I for you.”

  “It’ll be the lady’s choice, then.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And no hard feelings when she chooses me.”

  “Agreed. No hard feelings when she chooses me, you overconfident bastard.”

  They shared a grin of mutual challenge and mounted the steps.

  Chapter 5

  “The opportunity for gentle pursuits can be limited in the camp. The men take their entertainment as it comes, even sharing friendly bets on the most whimsical distractions.”

  — Charles Lowell Adams, Dispatches from The Iron Road, Great Western Rail Company

  The camp woke before dawn. For some, that meant only a few hours of sleep after enjoying the new entertainments available in the expanded town. The managers didn’t care. They had deadlines to meet and weren’t lax about rousting the men if necessary. A lot needed to be done before winter froze the ground and slowed the work crews to a chilly crawl. With the mountains looming, the back-breaking labor of digging tunnels for the tracks added to the list of tasks. Fortunately, the relatively new invention of dynamite would make that job easier than painstakingly chipping away at the stone. It was dangerous, though.

  Conn crouched behind his camera and peered through the lens at a drover and his wagon. A group of men loaded railway ties onto the sledge-like wagon hitched to a pair of powerful-looking oxen. They worked in their shirtsleeves, muscles straining much-washed homespun as sweat glistened on their faces. The men hefted the heavy wooden beams to their shoulders with ease, quickly moving them from the stack of planed timber to the wagon. The teamster in charge of the oxen watched as a skinny boy of about twelve dug muck out from between the animals’ toes.

  A young woman not much older than the boy walked past, balancing a bulging basket of clothes on one hip. Her thin skirts and petticoats swirled around the tops of worn brown ankle boots, showing a bit of stocking. The first few buttons on her bodice were loosened, a concession to the heat of the morning sun and the fires around the large cauldrons of wash water the laundresses kept stoked all day. Flushed from exertion, her cheeks glowed a becoming pink, highlighting cornflower blue eyes. Tendrils of long black hair escaped the kerchief on her head.

  The men paused in their work to appreciatively stare at the laundress, some calling out to her to stop and chat for a while. Her cheeks reddened, and she ducked her head. From her reaction, Conn guessed this young laundress was one of the few who did not make extra coin warming some man’s bed after the washing was done.

  The men groaned in disappointment when she continued on, hurrying her steps.

  “I’ve got something I’d like that little Bridget to clean for me,” one man said.

  “Polish for you, you mean,” another man said, sending the others into hoots of laughter. Some eyed Conn as if expecting a reaction to the derogatory term. Many of the newly arrived washwomen were Irish.

  Conn moved his tripod and camera box so he could focus in on the boy.

  Failing to get a rise from him, the men returned to their task. One hawked a wad of spittle on the muddy ground before selecting a tie from the pile. “You fellas notice the nice little Bridget that came in with the missus? Soft and round. I’d like me a piece of that,” he said. The wagon bounced a little as he tossed the wooden beam in the back.

  “Little skirt’s with Worthington’s daughter, Reuben,” another worker said, a bit timidly.

  The rest of the men looked at him pityingly. Conn efficiently exchanged plates before positioning
his camera to focus on the sweating workers.

  “Henry, my witless friend,” Reuben said. “As if it matters.”

  The teamster barked out directions. A couple of the men hopped aboard the back of the wagon and scrambled atop the growing stack of ties. Their cohorts handed their loads up, and the men continued to pile the lumber. Reuben leaned against the side of the wagon, took a dirty kerchief from his pocket and swiped it over the back of his perspiring neck.

  “I’ll tell you something about them Irish girls,” he said, his voice dropping to a mock whisper loud enough for everyone to hear. “Show ’em a pretty coin, and they can’t toss up their skirts fast enough. Doesn’t matter if they’re in the cribs,” he said, jerking a thumb in the direction of the tent town, “or acting hoity-toity with the missus. Mark my words.”

  The other men snickered, not bothering to hide the expectation on their faces as they waited for Conn’s reaction. Again, he ignored them. He settled the last plate in the waiting crate as Charles ambled over to join him.

  Just then, Reuben said, “Mind you, the missus is a fine piece, too. Imagine, a woman like that coming all the way out here. No husband, neither,” he said, grunting as he hoisted his load up to the waiting men. “And you know what that means.”

  Apparently, his friends did, because their snickers turned to knowing laughs.

  Charles frowned. “What the devil?”

  Conn took the camera off the tripod and shoved it into his friend’s hands, out of harm’s way. “Hold this, would you?”

  * * * *

  Lillian twitched her pink skirts away from a pile of steaming dung, wrinkling her nose when the pungent scent filled the air. The low heels of her button-up boots sank a bit into ground as she and Aileen walked toward the tents that had popped up like mushrooms after a rain. Several dozen structures, some sturdier than others, comprised the fledgling town. Some were simple tents shared by the workers. Larger wood and canvas buildings housed supplies, offices for the planners and engineers and a sprawling cookhouse. Added to the existing shelters, the new structures featured a host of other attractions, including some rustic saloons and cafes. Erected in ragged rows, they formed a mock-urban order, complete with alleys and wider thoroughfares.